Sour Cement

I’m still awake because sleeping it off is impossible. Wait. Have I been sleeping? I’m shivering and I hurt from head to toe. My eyes stay closed because I don’t want to believe it. I can’t lift my head. Shit. Jail.

I’m back in a cage. I feel it. I hear it. I smell it. “Dear God, what did I do now?”

I let enough of one eye open that I could see it. The big silver drain in the center of the floor. I wasn’t sick enough yet to use it or if I had I don’t recall. The smell is horrible. Rotten. The cement is stained sour. I can hear male voices. So vulgar. A new girl is in the drunk tank. Me. I’m the new girl.

Think Lynn. Think.

This was round 3. I knew what to do. I just had to have some time to figure out what to do next. Piece as much of the puzzle together as I can and worry about the rest once I get out of this vomit vault.

The only thing I knew I had done was drink. Why is my arm bandaged? Why do my wrists hurt? Short term memory is non existent. Nothing like sobering up in a drunk tank to lead you on a mental scavenger hunt.

The one thing that is even bigger than the pain is the craving. My shakes will go away as soon as I get some Tvarscki. My mind, body and soul will bounce back and I won’t feel like a big cry baby. I will be brave again; if I am being quite frank, I drink enough that I usually don’t feel a thing. It all goes out the window. Right now that is all I can think about. My goal is to get out of here and go get drunk. No time for mushy emotions and replays of the past.

Yet I lay there and think as I hear the plastic tray slide under the door. It’s bad enough I’m surrounded by puke now they want me to eat it? Part of the process. I’m not that hungry yet. I’ll be out of here soon and you can shove that tray of crap back up the ass you got it from. To think, I’m in jail. I’m the one who did something illegal and I’m the one laying here thinking they are the bad guys. The lies I wrote in my brain only to become a bigger problem I’d be facing later.

Long term memory is stronger than the short as I feel tears caving in my dehydrated cheeks. My family. My son’s. My sister and my Mother and few close friends. I can feel the pain I have caused them. I feel embarrassed; not for myself as much as how my behavior reflects on them, but not enough to stop. I do not want to feel this way. It is ugly and it hurts. Every bone in my body is begging me to figure out bail so I can get to the liquor store.

The end.

Not really the end, but a taste of a chapter you will read in my book. My goal is to share the good, the bad, and the ugly side of being drunk like me. I know some people can connect and thankfully some won’t. I am aware of the impunity drinker and that I am not made of that. The fact I am clear headed and able to share this with you today is proof that with perseverance and honesty the impossible is most definitely “ I’m possible.” That is what I want you to take away from anything I share and do today as I make progress into living my best life. The doom and gloom will always be there if you look for it but more importantly than that is the peace.

Love and Peace,

Lynn Rilean Smith

A memory from the drunk tank.

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